The Boy Artist

" OH, Madge, just stay as you are; there¿your head a little more turned this way."
"But, Raymond, I can't possibly make the toast if I do."
"Never mind the toast; I shan't be many minutes," said the boy who was painting in the window, while he mixed some colours in an excited, eager manner.
"The fire is very hot. Mayn't I move just to one side?"
"No; it is the way that the firelight is falling on your hair and cheek that I want. Please, Madge; five minutes."
"Very well," and the patient little sister dropped the toasting-fork, and folded her hands in her lap, with the scorching blaze playing on her forehead and cheek, and sparkling in her deep brown eyes.
The boy went on with rapid, bold strokes, while a smile played over his compressed lips as he glanced at Madge every few moments.
"The very thing I have been watching for¿that warm, delicious glow¿that red light slanting over her face;¿glorious!" and he shook back the hair from his forehead, and worked on unconscious of how the minutes flew by.
"Raymond, it is very hot."
"There¿one moment more, please, Madge."
One minute¿twöthree, fled by, and then Raymond threw down his brush and came over to his sister's side.
"Poor little Madge," and he laid his hand coaxingly on her silky hair. "Perhaps you have made my fortune."
This was some small consolation for having roasted her face, and she went to look at the picture. "I'm not as pretty as that, Raymond."